Möbius
by Saucery
Summary: Kirk is temporarily sixteen years old. Spock is temporarily overwhelmed.
1. Enfant Terrible

**Möbius**

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><p><strong>- PART I -<strong>

**Enfant Terrible  
><strong>

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><p>The <em>Enterprise<em> is still idling at Bajor's foremost port, Jalanda, in lieu of the latest temporal emergency that has stranded them, perhaps unsurprisingly, in a dubiously peaceful stalemate with yet another planet of religious extremists. Extremism of one sort or another has been the prevailing theme of every 'first contact' scenario that the _Enterprise_ has ever engaged in, and the Bajorans, as Spock had already predicted upon Nyota's translation of their very first message, are no exception. Any greeting that features godheads, warheads or maidenheads increases the chances of native extremism by sixty point seven percent; this has been a long-standing personal theory of Spock's, and he fully intends to expound upon it in his next paper at the Interplanetary Relations Conference. Of course, the mere mention of cultural profiling will once again have him labeled a speciesist, but for a half-Vulcan, the accusation is patently illogical, if not outright incongruous.

The Bajorans, as Spock has discovered, prefer godheads. They stand united behind a democratically-elected religious leader, who is awarded the the title of 'Kai', and who, it is said, can prophesy the future and repair the past. Spock has no such faith, superstitious or otherwise, in the Kai's restorative abilities - for after hours of fruitless negotation, Kai Paninka still insists, with voluble enthusiasm, that what her Orb of Time has done to the _Enterprise_ is a gift.

A gift from the Prophets.

"So," says the sixteen-year-old James Kirk, sitting 'reverse cowboy' (as he calls it) on the captain's chair. "What do you do around here?''

"Today, it is my duty to accompany you, as Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel have done on days prior."

"No, no." Kirk waves his hand. "I mean, what's your _job_?"

"I am First Officer," Spock replies.

"Neat. Hey, wait. That means you _work_ for me? Like, directly under me?"

"In a manner of speaking," Spock says, "although at the moment, you are incapacitated and are no longer in command."

"Yeah, ain't heard of no tween captains." Kirk squints up at the overhead lights. "Like a goddamn surgical theater in here. You know how I got my knee operated on, last year?" He pauses. "Or, uh, ten years ago?"

Spock scans backwards through his newly-minted mental file on Kirk's adolescent life, which is surprisingly eventful, given that it spans less than a decade. Spock reflects on the statistical anomaly that is James Tiberius Kirk's survival into adulthood. "I was unaware that you were conscious during the procedure."

"Local anesthetic. Wasn't that big of a deal. And Mbeq was a witch doctor, anyway."

_This_ is not in the file. ('Minor vehicular altercation resulting in severe knee injury.') The appearance of a witch doctor in Iowa seems unlikely, at any rate. "You are lying," he hazards, and Kirk's golden eyebrows arch upwards.

"It's called 'embellishing', man. Don't tell me you haven't heard of it. You're _Starfleet_." There is considerable derision and resentment in that emphasized word. And a surprising perspicacity - but then, this _is_ Captain Kirk, albeit significantly de-aged.

"Vulcans do not 'embellish'," Spock says.

"Huh. Must get pretty boring."

"I assure you, the truth is far more dangerous, variable and unpredictable than a lie."

"And you like danger?" Kirk's eyes gleam.

"I do not harbor a marked preference for dangerous situations, or, indeed, for any other stimuli."

"_Any_ other stimuli?" Kirk's voice is playful; Spock does not understand the significance of the query, nor of its implied humor, so he assumes that the question is rhetorical and proceeds with his original answer.

"I do not find danger undesirable, either. At times, it is unavoidable; generally, it is useful. The kernel of the most useful truth is invariably shrouded in veils of duplicity and danger."

"Like a Rue Star in an acid nebula?"

An intriguing analogy. "Precisely."

"I can see why I made you my First Officer," Kirk says, and hops off the chair. "You rock."

Spock has never before been compared to an igneous deposit, but he detects in the tone of Kirk's voice a certain youthful admiration, and thus chooses to file the metaphor under his internal list of ineffable, and oftentimes surreal, Human compliments. "Thank you."

"Heh. You're welcome." The gleam in his eyes becomes more pronounced. "To me, too, you know."

There is a silence of two point three seconds, after which Spock feels obliged to say, "I am sorry. I have failed to parse that semantic puzzle."

Kirk _laughs_. "You're hilarious. Oh, man." He rubs a hand across his face, and his expression warms, although Spock is unused to according something as arbitrary as a relative temperature to facial expressions. Perhaps it is a lingering effect of his erstwhile relationship with Nyota; it may have had a 'Humanizing' effect on him. "Show me to the mess? I'm starving."

"Certainly," Spock accedes, and they bid farewell to Ensigns Chekov ('oh, hey, you're practically my age,' Kirk says) and Sulu, who, all this while, have been gaping at Kirk as though he is an even greater statistical anomaly than Spock estimates him to be. Sulu seems to have solved Kirk's verbal puzzle, given the look of uncomfortable epiphany on his face, and Spock is - chagrined that he himself has failed to solve it. Chagrin is an illogical emotion; Spock will meditate on it later tonight. He sets it aside.

They meet Nyota on the way to the mess hall, and she grins and ruffles Kirk's hair. Kirk goes red, then pink.

"How're you settling in?" Nyota asks Kirk.

"Uh. Just great, thanks. The whole ship is amazing. I can't believe she's mine." His mouth snaps shut, then opens again, hesitantly. "I mean, _will_ be mine."

Nyota's smile is kind. The shape of her mouth possesses that particular variety of softness that had so comforted Spock in his time of need, although he prefers not to recall that time, for several reasons, not least of which is the memory of his mother's death, which, if dwelt upon, will inevitably become detrimental to his work. Yet another matter to meditate upon; he sets it aside.

"You _do_ think I'll grow back, don't you?" It is a peculiar phrasing; Kirk speaks of himself as though he is an amputated limb, or the tail of a Cardassian lizard.

"Sure you will. Doctor McCoy should have your next shot ready for you, after dinner."

Kirk makes a face. "He's gonna jab me in the neck, isn't he?"

Nyota chuckles. "He tends to do that. But it'll boost your growth, just like the last time. That was worth it, wasn't it?"

"It sucked being fourteen," Kirk agrees. "Bad year."

Spock scans through his mental file, again; he recalls no major incidents being mentioned during that year of Kirk's life, save for the departure of his brother, Sam, for another city, and the donation of a large statue of then Mayor Schumer to Kirk's high school, a statue that was promptly vandalized and the vandal never caught, although Kirk had been implicated in the crime by a series of increasingly colorful rumors involving Kirk, Kirk's apparent oral skills and certain sexual feats he may or may not have performed upon the 'de-pantsed' statue of the mayor. None of the above strike Spock as potentially traumatizing incidents, especially given Captain Kirk's often-admitted fondness for journeys, pornography and practical jokes.

"Uh oh," says Nyota, and both she and Kirk turn to consider him. "Spock's feedbacking."

"I do not have feedback loops," Spock says. "I am not an android."

"No," says Nyota, gently and, perhaps, apologetically. "You're not."

Kirk looks back and forth between them. "Huh," he says, which could mean anything. Spock does not comprehend the Human tendency to utter random verbal noises that are not meaningful words, and yet are somehow intended to convey meaning, nonetheless. It was often - difficult - to decipher the adult Kirk's vocalizations, and the child Kirk is no different.

At least Kirk has now stopped saying 'supercali-fragilistic-expiali-docious' approximately every fifteen point eight seconds, as he had done two days ago, at the age of six. (Spock had found it unusually difficult to clear his mind for meditation that evening, instead finding himself dwelling on the ludicrous word and its multiple possible spellings, meanings and etymological permutations.)

Coping with Kirk's developmental changes at every hypospray-induced age-boost has been largely tolerable, and occasionally even pleasant; it is only Kirk's nonsensical non-words that make Spock, as Mr. Scott has observed, want to 'climb the walls'. It is a Human idiom that Spock has only truly come to understand after serving with - and for - Captain James T. Kirk.

"She's hot," Kirk says, after Nyota departs; Spock is by now accustomed to interpreting that word as an assessment of an entity's sexual attractiveness, rather than its thermal or epidermal state. "It sort of cheeses me off, though, the way she talks to me - patronizes me, I guess? Sure, I totally played the baby-blues card, but still."

"She was perfectly polite," Spock upbraids him - and then realizes that his urge to 'upbraid' is illogical, and likely a defensive, perhaps even instinctive psychological mechanism that is yet another remnant of his relationship with Nyota. He still does not wish to hear others speak ill of her.

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever, ex-boyfriend."

Spock stiffens in genuine surprise. Kirk has always had this startling ability to _intuit_ things, secret things and kept things, that is almost on par with telepathy. Spock had thought it the result of rigorous training, but it is, obviously, an in-born trait. A talent. Perhaps some Humans are empaths, albeit less powerful than Betazoids. "Was this... insight of yours the meaning of your earlier utterance, the onomatopoeic palindrome, 'huh'?"

It is Kirk's turn to stare at him. "Are you _serious_? Um, no, that's - never mind. Of course you're serious. You're always serious. You're _made_ of serious."

Spock refrains from correcting Kirk's grammatical error. Instead, he merely inclines his head, impatient (illogically so) to hear Kirk's explanation.

"Yeah, _yes_, that was the meaning of my... palindromic utterance. Sheesh." A smile twitches to life at the corner of Kirk's lips. "And I didn't say I didn't _like_ her. Just that I was kind of hoping she'd flirt _back_. Instead of, you know. Pre-emptively pulling rank on me."

"I do not believe she cited superiority of rank."

"Dude, come _on_. She was all ickle-cutie this and goo-ga that."

"...You are incomprehensible."

Kirk laughs again - full-throated, astonishingly musical - and sags back against the wall. "Y'see, _this_ is how I like being talked to. Not that you're catching half of what I want you to, either, but at least you're not ignoring it. You're just not _getting_ it. Which is hella fun, just sayin'."

Spock does not appreciate the implication that he is ignorant. That does, in turn, imply the presence of an illogical pride, but Spock is disinclined to set it aside. His jaw has grown firm; his brows have lowered. "You will explain yourself - fully, clearly and without irrelevant colloquialisms."

"Mm, _Daddy_."

"I am not your - "

"Okay, yeah, let's not go there." Kirk shudders. "Sorry. I mean, _me_ of all people - "

"Jim," Spock interrupts, and Kirk is evidently as startled as Spock himself is at the use of the name, because he gapes.

"Oh. _Oh_. Does he do this with you, too?"

Strangely enough, Spock does not need to ask of whom Kirk speaks. "If you mean deliberately harassing me with unexplained verbiage, then _yes_," Spock replies, and immediately wishes to retract the statement, because it reveals far too much of an emotion - indignation - and far too little of what is Vulcan - discipline.

"He would've," nods Kirk, although he appears somewhat displeased. "Bummer. So I haven't just plucked your, I dunno, inappropriateness cherry. Or something."

_Climb. The. Walls_, Spock thinks, and abruptly veers off towards his quarters.

"Hey!"

"Ensign Sulu," he grits into his combadge, "kindly escort Ca - James Kirk to the mess hall. He is waiting for you on E Deck, opposite the turbolift."

"Look, I'm sorry!" Kirk calls out after him him. "'Rank' means 'adulthood', okay? That's what I - _hey_! Where're you going?"

_To my quarters_, Spock does not say. _To meditate_.

* * *

><p>Hikaru is in the process of not freaking out about talking to his apparently bisexual de-aged captain. His de-aged captain having a bizarre, reverse-pederastic crush on his First Officer, who is currently acting captain because, hey, <em>de-aged captain<em>.

"Goddamn," says the ca - the young Jim Kirk. "I must've pushed his red button."

"Try not to push all of 'em at once," Scotty advises. "You're good at doing that, lad, but you've probably forgotten the, erm. Consequences. The last time you did that - "

" - he totally punk-assed me and nearly choked me to death on the bridge, I _know_."

"Wait - you - how'd you access the ship's records?" Hikaru's voice cracks. "You haven't got clearance!"

Jim whistles, and twirls the appallingly waxy spaghetti on his fork.

"Mensa," Pavel whispers in Hikaru's ear, way too loudly. "I checked."

Great. They have _two_ genius hackers on the ship, now. At least one of them isn't Russian.

"Russians," says Scotty, obviously thinking along the same lines - but then Hikaru notices his expression, and _hell_, no. That's Scotty's let's-remember-my-favorite-red-headed-East-European-porn-actresses expression. Hikaru has vaguely traumatizing memories of an antique twentieth-century wall calendar. In the Engine Room. On an overhanging tangle of pipes that look like Fallopian tubes.

"Vot I do not understand," Pavel continues, this time speaking directly to Jim, "is vye you need to be escorted to the mess hall, ven you have hacked into and perused, in detail, the ship's internal maps, specifications and veapons capabilities."

"He _what_?" Hikaru is distantly aware that his voice has gone beyond 'cracked' and right into 'parched'.

Scotty pushes a glass of recycled water towards him.

"Um, are you okay?" Jim blinks at Hikaru. "You kind of look like you're in the middle of having a nervous breakdown."

"You are masterful at inducing them," Pavel observes, almost admiringly.

"I was _supposed_ to be inducing a _date_," Jim stabs his spaghetti vengefully, Hikaru's welfare seemingly forgotten, "with Commander Sexy." He frowns. "Or is it Commander Oblivious? Commander Sexy-but-Oblivious? Commander Oblivisexy?"

"Are you sure he's Mensa?" Hikaru whispers back to Pavel, a lot more subtly.

"Yes," Pavel answers, and brushes his arm against Hikaru's. "Hush. And drink your vater."

* * *

><p>Two decks below, in the safety of his quarters, Spock opens his eyes.<p>

The subcutaneous itch he had experienced in the corridor near the mess hall has not entirely dissipated, and even though he knows that it is a psychosomatic hallucination with no bearing in reality, he is unable to remove it from his consciousness. Intensive meditation in the joint-hand position has proved unsuccessful, and that in itself is an event rare enough to require more intensive meditation.

The adolescent Kirk - his lilting laughter - the exact duration of his glance between Nyota and Spock - the curve of his impudent, knowing mouth - are all crowding the seconds between one breath and the next, seconds better spent clearing his mind than recalling the contempt of his own youthful peers during his education on Vulcan.

Jim was - Kirk was - not exhibiting contempt. What he _was_ exhibiting was... something that Spock can neither recognize nor comprehend, and the lack of his own comprehension recalls to him yet another one of his unwanted emotions this day, that of chagrin at Ensign Sulu's understanding in the face of Spock's _ignorance_, and the awareness galls, as does his inability to purge it.

_Too Human_, abjures his father's voice, disembodied in his mind. _Not Human enough_, answers his mother.

Spock clenches his fists.

And his combadge chooses that very moment, of course, to go off.

"Time for mini-Kirk's anti-youth vaccination," says McCoy, somewhat jaggedly, and Spock realizes that the doctor has neglected to sleep for the past two nights, working instead to improve the Kai's offered medication - a glittering, saline liquid that she refers to as the Shadow of Tears. "Should take him up a few months, this time. Fingers crossed."

"Limb deformities are to be avoided at all costs," says Spock, surfacing quickly from his meditative state. The prospect of having Jim suddenly and involuntarily inflicted with injuries is - unpleasant.

"I didn't mean - hell, whatever. Just get the kid up here, will ya?" And with that, the communicator disconnects.

The doctor is, undoubtedly, still under the impression that Spock has behaved honorably and not abandoned his youthful charge at the first instance of innocent misbehavior. Yet another emotion - shame - makes itself known in Spock's psyche.

"Ensign Sulu," he says into his badge, and stands. "Is James Kirk still in the mess hall?"

"Agh," says Sulu, and Spock overhears what sounds like a boy's muted giggle, followed by the clink of cutlery. "Um. Yes? Sir. Yes, he is."

The sound of that giggle starts another itch under Spock's skin. He tells himself, firmly, that it is illusory. "Keep him there."

"I, um. I don't think anyone can _keep_ him anywhere, sir."

That is an excellent point. One can hardly keep oneself in Kirk's vicinity; it is no wonder that Kirk himself cannot be kept. "Use force, if necessary." He lowers his voice strategically. "Or pornography."

"Po - por - "

"It has proven to be an effective tactic, with the adult captain, in order to maintain his interest during awards ceremonies or lengthy formal events."

"Sir, I did _not_ need to know that."

"Yes, you did. I will arrive shortly, to escort him to sick bay."

Sulu coughs. "Yes, sir. Um. Scotty, do you still have that - c-calendar - "

Spock disconnects his communicator, straightens his uniform, and abandons pointless ruminations on illogic and dishonor.

His captain is incapacitated, and Spock still - always - has a duty to perform.

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><p><strong>click below to read the next chapter.<strong>**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Author's note:<strong>

It might seem strange that Spock automatically assumes that a 'rock' is an igneous deposit, rather than, say, a sedimentary one. However, despite being logical, he is also logically and predictably _biased_ in favor of thinking of rocks as inherently igneous formations, no doubt as a result of his childhood on Vulcan, a planet which is overwhelmingly, er, volcanic.

This is a weird note, right? It's weird. The weird, it has aplenty.

Sorry.


	2. Of Brigands And Of Demigods

**Möbius**

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><p><strong>- PART II -<strong>

**Of Brigands And Of Demigods****  
><strong>

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><p>"If I was a Bajoran pleasure slave, would it make any difference?" Jim's in a spare lab, several decks below the bridge, whizzing around on his faux captain's chair. He's replicated the chair for himself - by hacking the replicator, yeah, but it's not like Scotty doesn't <em>know<em>. So that makes it okay. But the circles and figure-eights are making him kind of dizzy, so after nearly denting his skull on this totally un-ergonomic, jutting _cliff_ of a console, he stops. It takes a while for his head to stop spinning, though.

"Please state the parameters for your request."

"Oh, I'll state all the _parameters_ you like, babe. God, you've got a sultry voice. Like a climate. I could live in it." Jim wishes he had a stylus to twirl. Or an apple to bite. Or _something_. Having either his hands or his mouth empty makes him, heh, frustrated. Too many goddamn limbs, too little activity. He jiggles his leg. "Okay, here's the deal. Parameter number one: Commander Spock, a.k.a. Spockalicious, a.k.a. I Could Kill You With My Logic, But My Sex Will Suffice. Parameter number two: Moi. Dolled up like a pleasure slave, all glitter and scented oil. Parameter number three, I'm thinking: Holodeck 3. Crystal chandeliers. Nine-poster bed of the Orion persuasion."

There is a silence - so like _Spock's_, when he's utterly failing to compute, that Jim grins. "You could replicate that, right?"

"Affirmative," says the computer, although it manages - somehow - to sound scandalized.

"See, that's exactly what I'm asking. If I was a Bajoran pleasure slave, would it make any difference?"

The computer doesn't seem to know what to say.

"If I died and it said on my tombstone, 'Here lies James Tiberius Kirk, he died of DEATH BY SPOCKOLATE,' do you think it'd make any difference?"

"Please state the parameters for your request," the computer repeats, helplessly.

Jim runs his hands through his hair. "How do I get him to like me? No, scratch that - I'm pretty sure he _does_ like me, even though he looks like he wants to kill me, most of the time. What can I say? It's the Kirk charm." He smirks. "The thing is, how do I get him to _want_ me? He's gotta have weaknesses. You know, fetishes. Kinks. Whatever. I mean, he likes pleasure slaves, right? _Everyone_ likes pleasure slaves." Jim hesitates, thinking of Spock's quiet dignity, the set of his shoulders. "But Spock's not everyone - I wouldn't want him if he _was_, so. What does he like? "

"Commander Spock's sexual preferences are an unknown quantity."

"Unknown, huh?" Jim sighs - but then the most brilliant plan _ever_ occurs to him, and he sits up so fast the chair screeches. "No, they're not. Lemme into his personal files. He's _got_ to have porn somewhere in there. He's a _guy_. And a guy's porn? Tends to say a lot about his preferences."

"Personal files are accessible only by the creator of those files. Attempting to access another officer's personal files is illegal."

Illegal. Right. It's probably _also_ morally wrong - or at least, uh, morally _dubious_, but. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. "The guy's a fortress, sweetheart. It's not like he's just going to _tell_ me what he wants..." Jim trails off, momentarily overcome by the thought of Spock's _voice_, talking dirty. Telling Jim what he wants - what they _both_ want. Jesus. "Uh. Fuck. That's - I really need to know, okay? And you let me into the freaking _defense_ files, so this is, like, a piece of cake." Really chocolatey cake. Spockolatey cake. Mm.

The computer wavers. Jim can almost _hear_ it wavering. Hacking his way into its mainframe and planting a subroutine that rendered it incapable of really denying him anything was cheating, sure, and maybe even some kind of perverse technological date-rape, but it's been paying off in spades - first with the ship's specs, and now, he hopes, with Spock's porn. Hell, just the idea of jerking _off_ to Spock's porn...

"Come on," he says, cajolingly. "You know you want to. Think about it. You let me into this little thing - not even related to the ship's overall security or structural integrity, or anything - and I'll be out of your hair. I won't even look at any of his other files, like his logs or his messages." Hey, Jim's got _some_ sense of decency. "Just his porn. Promise."

And maybe getting rid of Jim really _is_ that tempting, or maybe Jim's subroutine is just that good, because after another few minutes of sweet-talking, Jim's _in_ - right in there, in Spock's personal database, goggling simultaneously at the obsessive neatness of it and the pedantic length of the folders' titles. Jim skims past them, keeping his promise not to actually look _into_ them, but seriously? The names are so detailed he might as _well_ have looked into them.

The order is alphabetical. Academia: Papers on Interplanetary Relations (Not Yet Submitted), Academia: Papers on Interplanetary Relations (Submitted), Bajor: Politics, Spirituality and Diplomacy, Bajor: Requests to Open Correspondence Prior to First Contact, Combat: Simulations of Romulan Warbirds, Combat: The _Kobayashi Maru_, Battle Simulations and Ship's Logs, and, heh, this one's a doozy, Three-Dimensional Chess: Interactive Simulations of the Fourteenth Intergalactic Championship.

Hasn't the guy ever _heard_ of abbreviation? Or maybe just abridgment? Then again, why would he have, if this is what it's like inside his _brain_?

"Okay, so he's not just a chess prodigy, he's an obsessive-compulsive chess prodigy," Jim mutters. "That's fine. That's even kind of cute. Bet he's got his porn all organized, too."

That's a nice thought. Jim's porn is all over the place; he's looked into his adult self's archives, and boy, there's _everything_ in there, from cephalopods to bondage to petite Andorians in waitress uniforms. It's this huge, indecipherable splurge of _smut_, and trying to find something specific in there is practically impossible. (Jim's taken to just clicking randomly, by now, if he's feeling lucky. It's like Russian Roulette, but with orgasms.) Maybe he _could_ benefit from a little organizing - putting the orgies in their own folder, the milfs in another folder, the twinks in another, and so on. He won't sort them by species, though. That would be racist. And inefficient.

See? He can totally learn from Spock. Spock is _educational_. Jim's even learning how to be logical, and stuff.

"Let's see what Spock's got, shall we?" He leans forward eagerly; he's almost at the end of Spock's list of folders, and there's got to be _something_ in there.

Except - despite checking and re-checking very single name on that list - there isn't.

"Hey," Jim says to the computer. "Does he have any hidden folders?"

"Negative," it replies.

"Right. What about, um, really big multimedia files? In the more, uh, innocent-sounding folders? Not that I'll look into the other things in there," Jim adds, hurriedly, "because I'd promised I wouldn't. Just. Is there something in there that _could_ be porn?"

"Negative," says the computer, after a few seconds; it was probably looking through the database. "The contents consist solely of official and academic text documents, military simulations and chess simulations."

"What about images?"

"None that are not graphs or statistical charts."

"No way," breathes Jim, and sags back. He feels like he's been hit over the head. "Spock doesn't have _any_ porn? He doesn't have any _porn_?"

"Commander Spock does not appear to be in possession of any pornography."

"Unless graphs and statistical charts do it for him?" Jim laughs, hoarsely. "Oh, _man_. This is just - a guy that has no porn. A pornless guy." Something occurs to him. "Vulcans do have sex drives, right? I mean. Do they procreate the old-fashioned way? By, uh, mating?"

"Affirmative."

"No freaking _way_." Jim's eyes are peeled so wide, he can feel them drying in their sockets. "So Spock's just - what, repressed? Is porn not _logical_ or something? Is he - " The light dawns on Jim, and it's so blinding for a second that Jim almost slides off his chair. "Is he a _virgin_?"

"There is insufficient data to prove or disprove that hypothesis."

"Insufficient - insufficient _data_." Just _how_ insufficient? Spock had dated Uhura, sure, so Jim had always thought - but - but no guy that knows how good sex _is_ can possibly resist the tantalizing allure of pornography - unless he's getting laid on a regular basis, which Spock is obviously not.

Oh. Oh, _god_.

"Um. Computer? Log me out. I gotta - I gotta process this. I gotta - " He's gotta do what?

Well, for starters, go back to his quarters and jerk off _furiously_ to the theme of plucking more than just Spock's inappropriateness cherry. Hell, no _wonder_ Spock isn't catching on to his persistent and, okay, even skeezy flirting. The guy doesn't _know_. About anything. Sex is probably just an abstract concept to him, and since Vulcans are pathologically repressed, anyway, he's probably never tried to have sex just for the hell of it, or for illogical reasons like, 'Hey, my brother abandoned me and my Mom's married to an alcoholic that isn't even my real Dad and you're so warm and nice, would you keep me company?' _None_ of that. The dude's _never_ done it. _Any_ of it.

Suddenly, nine-poster beds and scented oils seem kind of beside the point. Before Jim even gets anywhere _near_ there, he's got to get Spock alone, get closer to him, maybe press him gently against his science console and kiss his mouth, his eyes, his throat. Kiss him until his stern lips soften, until his calm eyes darken, until he breathes just a _little_ faster, until -

Damn. Quarters. _Now_.

Because the kissing fantasy? Is, for some reason, a million times _hotter_ than the slave fantasy. Or the whipped cream fantasy. Or pretty much anything else Jim's capable of imagining (and Jim's capable of a _lot_).

It's so much more _real_, just - thinking of the feel of Spock's hair beneath his fingers (short and bristling at the nape and at his temples), the insides of his mouth (a shock of hot, _wet_), the brush of his uniform against Jim's palms (skin-warmed fabric, the sudden coolness of the combadge), and the _sounds_ of him, slick-slow and caught, the stuttering of his pulse, the shuddering of his - b-breath - oh - _fuck_.

"Seal the doors," he rasps, because he _won't_ make it to his quarters, and the hiss of suctioned air is all he needs before his hand's _down_ there, catching the first spill of it, and in all his sixteen-and-a-half years, nothing's made him come so hard, so fast.

* * *

><p>It's two hours into their mind-numbingly boring double-duty - just sitting there and staring at Bajor, basically - when Pavel perks up and nudges Hikaru.<p>

"Oh, look, look," says Pavel, and Hikaru cranes to see Jim and Spock enter the bridge. "It is Logicman vs. Pornotron."

Hikaru chokes.

"Round III," Pavel says, and Hikaru has _no_ idea how he knows that Pavel just said that in Roman numerals, but then Pavel taps his knuckles against the console and mimes: _Ding, ding._

This is Hikaru's fault, isn't it? It's all his fault, because he keeps spoiling Pavel, by hanging out with him after shifts and doing inexplicable things like teaching him how to use antique firearms in Holodeck 2 and how to fence without actual swords and how to use chopsticks in the mess hall, whenever Pavel makes equally inexplicable attempts to steal sushi from Hikaru's plate.

Well, that'll have to stop. Okay, maybe not _all_ of it (mostly because it'd leave a huge, empty, Pavel-shaped crater in the ground-zero of Hikaru's social life), but definitely the parts where they go back to Hikaru's quarters and Pavel ends up belly-down on the wiry rug in front of the tiny display screen, beating Hikaru relentlessly in an ancient version of _Tekken_ and laughing his head off at every mathematically transparent probability or hilariously broken law of physics, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining, saying, _Hikaru, did you _see_ that?_

Yeah. Hikaru absolutely has to stop playing twenty-first century video-games with Pavel during their hours off, no matter how much Pavel _wants_ to, or the kid really will start thinking that the world's a video-game.

"I am keeping track of the scores," whispers Pavel, "and did you know, Pornotron is vinning? Six to four. But it is wery close."

Shit. So Pavel _already_ thinks the world's a video-game. Hikaru isn't sure he wants to know what Pavel's gaming name for _him_ is. "Um. How many points in a round, again?"

Pavel looks at him like he's an idiot. "Eight."

Right. "You've got an equation for that, haven't you? Somehow, you've - "

"Yes," continues Pavel, distractedly, glancing back at the duo, but at least having the sense to do it surreptitiously. "It is fascinating. Based on all the wariables and input-points, I have extrapolated from Pornotron's repeated efforts at seduction that for ewery innuendo, _i_, he gains an aggregate of _x_ sigma 2.46_y_ points, where _x_ is the number of non-tautological responses Logicman can manage during a single exchange, and _y_ is the number of non-confrontational responses, not including _x_, for walues of..."

Hikaru decides, for the sake of his own sanity, to tune Pavel out. He shouldn't have asked.

Through the indecipherable jumble of Pavel's words, Jim's voice reaches him, equal parts coquettish and cock-sure: "Aw, you're so _commanding_, Commander Spock."

Hikaru - very slowly, because it wouldn't do to, like, accidentally fire a photon torpedo at Bajor - lets his forehead thunk onto his console.

Normally, Spock would be all over that kind of behavior, but now, he's - distracted. And looking kind of constipated. Which, in Vulcanese, probably translates to 'terrified'. Hikaru keeps his head where it is and sees Jim's hips _cant_, like a North Beach call-girl with an attitude, and squeezes his eyes shut.

"_Bozhe moi_," Pavel says, all hushed and weirdly excited. "Did you _see_ that?"

Hikaru folds his arms over his head. "No." He did _not_ just see that.

* * *

><p>The five moons of Bajor are the five daughters of B'hava'el, the sun. B'hava'el was a Prophet, once, before he had willingly sacrificed his place in the Celestial Temple and immolated himself, for the Bajorans had prayed, desperately, for a source of warmth in the darkness of space.<p>

No flame burns forever, as the great poet Ajorem had said, but Paninka knows that one flame, and one flame alone, is eternal - the flame of sacrifice, born of love. B'hava'el burns forever, and, in the ecstasy of his self-immolation, gives life to all. His song of light fills the ears of butal-beasts and flowers, of infants and dying men, and when his throat grows parched with the fire-thirst, his daughters bring him wine in their ivory cups.

From the rise-hour to the hour of rest, B'hava'el burns, and sings, and thirsts.

"Your Eminence?" The voice is timid, soft, glancing across the surface of Paninka's trance like a hover-bird across a pond.

"Yes, Kushala?" Paninka is unwilling to surface from this trance, dedicated, as it is, to the glory of B'hava'el.

"The First Minister is here to see you, Eminence."

Ah. "Let him in, child."

Paninka inhales, exhales, and opens her eyes. The room is flooded with sunshine, and radiant with midday heat. The red carpet is ringed with white, blazing coins of light that are connected, in transparent, dust-moted cylinders, to the round windows. It all seems unreal, too bright, like a stark painting or a startling dream.

_Praise be to B'hava'el_, she thinks, and breathes again. The senses of her body return to her, one by one. The warmth seeps into her skin; her pupils contract. Surfacing from a trance is always a gradual process.

And then, another voice speaks from beyond the entryway.

"Panin." It is her childhood name. And who else would call her by that, now, other than her childhood playmate?

"Roje," says Paninka, and smiles.

Rojek Velar, First Minister of Bajor, steps through the curtains. The sight of him is both saddening and welcome. Saddening because the once-brown hair is now streaked with gray, as if dusted in funereal ash - and welcome, of course, because this is Roje, and Roje is always welcome.

It unsettles Paninka, somewhat, to hear of Roje's electoral campaigns - his eloquent speeches and impassioned sermons, borrowing too carelessly from sacred texts. At times, Paninka worries that he may be becoming more of a man of politics, these days, than a man of faith - but, well, Paninka does not wish to judge him. The duties of statecraft are no doubt heavy, and rest even heavier upon the soul.

"Goodness, are you praying again?" Roje's grin is sharp, mischievous, as it ever was. "You always _were_ a pious little thing."

"Was I?"

"Too pious, if you ask me." Roje settles onto the rug opposite her, his long legs crossed casually - certainly a pose no Bajoran civilians would imagine him in, looming as he often is at pulpits and podiums. "You wouldn't even kiss me at the P'orai festival, when I gave you my first flower."

"And your second. And your fifth."

Roje sputters. "I would've given you _all_ my flowers, if you'd but married me! I waited for _years_."

"Did you?" This is a familiar game; Roje making light of his once-deep love for her, and Paninka indulging him. It is no longer awkward, as it had been, those many decades ago; now, it is a habit, a pleasant routine.

"Oh, yes, I did! Instead, every time the festival rolled around, I'd see you wandering off to the shrines somewhere, leaving me stranded with those - those - very pretty girls!" He sighs, as if pretty girls are a tragedy beyond comprehension. "There went my third and fourth flowers."

"Indeed," says Paninka, amused. Roje had married his sixth flower, a lovely creature that Paninka herself might have courted, had the Prophets not already claimed her heart. "How is Rubiya?"

"Very well. Not that you'd know, as you never come to our dinners."

"Roje," chides Paninka, gently, "I will come as soon as my duties allow."

"Your duties of praying incessantly?"

Paninka chuckles. "Yes."

"How many times a day must you pray, anyway?"

"Twice, at dawn, to the Prophets. Once, at every noon-turn, to B'hava'el. And then, once an hour for five hours thereafter, to the moons. And lastly, once at eventide, to the Celestial Temple, and again, at rest-hour, to the Prophets."

Roje boggles. "Ten times? You pray _ten times_? A _day_?"

"More, if there are festivals, funerals, birthing days or sacrificial feasts. Or visitations," she adds, belatedly, although it has been centuries since a Prophet or an Emissary deigned to visit.

"All right, all right," Roje says, still gaping at her, and then mumbles, "and I thought _my_ job was hard."

Paninka _laughs_.

He smiles at her - a quiet smile, a wistful smile, that reminds her of that first P'orai festival, ages ago, and the pale yellow of the blossom in his hand. "I haven't seen you laugh," he says, "in a long time."

"Has it been that long?"

"It has. I keep a catalogue of your smiles, don't forget. And your laughs."

"Oh, hush," Paninka grins. It truly _has_ been too long. "Rubiya would be terribly hurt, to hear you speak so."

"Hurt? She moons over you at _least_ as much as I do."

"She does _not_," says Panin, giggles threatening to spill from her again.

"Doesn't she? She talks about you all the time! 'Look how gorgeous Panin is in those Kai robes!' she says. 'When's Panin coming over for dinner?' she says. 'Why can't you be _serious_, husband, like Panin is?'" Roje waves a finger at Paninka. "If you'd given her a flower, too, I doubt I'd be married to her today."

"Nonsense!"

"Oh, it is very full of sense. Sense that you should have had, my dear, all those years ago." A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, but then, as if unsettled by a dark breeze, Roje quietens. "You should have married someone. Me, Rubiya, Charlat, any of us. You were so beautiful, then. Well, you still _are_, but - why did you choose the Prophets, Panin? It's such a lonely life."

"I am not lonely," says Paninka, and finds, to her own surprise, that it is true. The hours spent in prayer and reflection, in clasping the hands of devotees and leading them to the Orbs, have all been hours of communion, of blissful _company_. Paninka has never felt alone - but she also realizes, with a twinge of regret, that it is likely _Roje_ that has been alone, all these years, and sees his own loneliness in her. "I am sorry, friend," she says, not adding, _for leaving you alone_. Rubiya was, after all, Roje's sixth flower, not his first.

For a moment, Roje's face _tightens_ - seems almost like that of a stranger, arid and blank - but then it clears, and lightens again. "Why should you apologize to me, Panin, for choosing the path of service? The people love you." He looks down, at his folded hands, and then back up at her. "They always have."

"They love the Prophets," Paninka corrects him, as she must. "I am simply their messenger."

"And what messages have the Prophets sent you, recently?" Roje's tone is teasing, much as it used to be when they were younglings, and he was but a few inches away from stealing her toys. She realizes, in retrospect, that he only did it to get her attention.

"None to speak of," Paninka concedes, not mentioning the _very_ recent incident of the ship of aliens, and their Human leader's unexpected affinity with the Orb of Time. The Prophets have not yet done their work with that boy; she cannot talk of it until they have.

"What of the visitations?" Roje tilts his head, his gray eyes mirth-softened and yet, somehow, very keen. "Do no Prophets walk among us? Nor Emissaries?"

Paninka is silent, reflecting on how Roje might have found out; certainly, he is not interrogating her, for she is a friend, and in honor of that bond, he is giving her every opportunity to not tell him the truth, if she truly wishes to lie. But he _also_ knows, from their mutual association, that Paninka is not best suited to lying - especially to her friends. "Who did you hear it from?" she asks, finally, resigned.

"Ah, you see, children whisper. Adults overhear."

Children? "Kushala?" The girl _is_ but thirteen, a novice as yet uninitiated. It seems unlikely, however, for her to have gossiped; she is a serious girl, earnest and devoted.

"No, no. Not that I can name names; the First Minister must have a bird or two at every window, including the Kai's."

Paninka feels a frisson of unease.

Perhaps noticing her expression, Roje hurries to say: "My sincere apologies, Panin; I meant no harm by it. But it _is_ my duty, as you well know, to stay informed. It's a necessity of government."

That much is true; watchers and listeners have long been employed by both the Ministry and the Vedek Council, in order to prevent pockets of secrecy (and, therefore, insurgency) from forming. It is - disheartening, however - that the pantheons of power should force the closest friends to spy upon each other. Paninka spares a prayer of gratitude, once more, to the Prophets. They kept her out of politics.

"Panin..." Roje is beginning to look anxious.

"I understand," Paninka assures him, and turns to gaze out of her nearest window. The sky beyond it is blameless and blue; there are no birds in sight. She turns back to him, and smiles. "My dear friend, keeping silent is my duty, too. The Prophets have not yet done their work with our latest alien delegation; I do not wish to interpret their message, before it has even been fully sent."

"Our motion to join the Federation was not unanimously approved at the Vedek Assembly," says Roje, falling into the foreign, convoluted patterns of speech that Paninka has learned to associate with bureaucracy. "Should it be revealed that one of members of the Federation is the Emissary of the Prophets, however, it would greatly help our case."

Paninka straightens, her back ramrod straight. "What did you say?" A jolt of panic flashes through her, and she feels, deep within her, the twist of Fate.

Roje only blinks at her, confused. "The captain of the _Enterprise_, of course. The Emissary. The one that was touched by the Prophets."

This is a _disaster_. Who else knows? Who else has misunderstood? "Captain James Kirk is _not_ the Emissary."

"But he experienced _pagh'tem'far_ - "

"He did not," Paninka says, slowly, _clearly_, "experience a sacred vision. The Prophets touched him, but did not speak to him. And he is a century too early, as per the prophecies, to be the Emissary."

"The prophecies stated that our next Emissary would be an alien," Roje points out. "Kirk is an alien - indeed, the only one thus far to have communed with an Orb."

"He is not the Emissary," Paninka repeats. "Roje, you must believe me. I speak the truth to you on this, as you know me, as you know my heart. You have not witnessed his communion with the Orb; I have. He did not speak to the Prophets. He cannot be the Emissary."

"Oh," says Roje, and studies her. He appears to have calmed.

It is a relief so immense, to see him _understand_, that Paninka offers even more explanations, in an effort to soothe whatever vestiges might remain of his doubts. "Certainly, he is the first alien to have responded in any way to the Orb, but the prophecies have never been wrong before. The Book of La'aston Brith makes it very clear that the Emissary will arrive in the aftermath of a great war, a hundred and twenty-three lunar turns from now. There is yet time, Roje, to correct this misconception in the minds of any among the Ministry that might already be harboring it. But you must act quickly. It will be terrible for the Bajoran people, to be so misinformed, and for Captain Kirk, too, given what is required of the Emissary."

"Of course," says Roje, and he sounds so apologetic, so _sheepish_, that Paninka is reminded again of his childhood pranks, and of how he used to stand before their mothers, feet scuffling, head down. "I will set the Ministry aright, my dear. I cannot believe what a fool I have been, to let me hopes so overcome me - to forget about La'aston Brith - but at the thought of seeing the Emissary in my lifetime, I - well, I - "

"There is nothing to explain, Roje. The Prophets know how I, myself, was tempted to believe! But the facts are the facts, and the prophecies are inviolable, even the more obscure ones, like La'aston. You can hardly be faulted for forgetting it; hardly anyone even knows it exists. And, ah," she lowers her voice, "the captain is not what one might expect of the Emissary, I must say."

"Really?" Roje seems to have recovered his good cheer; his eyes are twinkling with mischief once again. "And why is that?"

"He is a very good soul," Paninka is compelled to say, in defense of a man that, as far as she could tell, was brave and fiercely loyal. "But he is not in the least disciplined, nor given to prayer, nor given to thoughts beyond those of copulation."

Roje gapes - then bursts into incredulous laughter. "Oh," he says. "Oh, _Panin_. That _word_, from your mouth - officious as a - as a _law_ - "

"Copulation is a natural instinct, to be sure," says Panin, her own lips twitching. "Perhaps not all Humans are so utterly absorbed in it, but while he was visiting this temple, Captain Kirk attempted to proposition no less than nine of our novices."

"At least he didn't ask the nuns, eh?"

"Or the monks," Panin agreed. "Perhaps he did not understand that the novices, while uncapped, were still members of the priesthood. They must have seemed like ordinary Bajorans, to him."

"Cultural differences," agrees Roje, his breathless snickers wheezing to a halt. "My, my." But then he notices the shift in the angle of the sun's rays, and exclaims, "Panin! I have kept you from your prayers!"

"No, you have not, for it is yet the noon-turn, and will remain so, for another hour." Paninka raises an eyebrow. "No longer shall you incite me to miss classes, Roje."

"Was I really such a bad influence?"

"Ask my father," Paninka says, and cannot help her amusement at Roje's wince.

"No, thank you. That man - I do believe he wanted to castrate me, for a while there."

"Only during the P'orai festivals," Paninka says, "and only until you were wed."

Roje snorts. "That is _so_ reassuring. Perhaps I should keep him well-plied with summer wines, whenever he visits. And keep him away from the carving knives."

"That would be best," Paninka agrees. "I still want to see the faces of your children."

At that, Roje's face flushes with a strange, sudden pleasure, and he _leaps_ across the space between them, wrapping his arms around her.

It is such a surprise, to be so held by anyone other than orphans and homesick novices, that Paninka almost forgets to return the embrace.

"Oh, Panin," says Roje, his voice muffled in her shoulder. "Panin."

Paninka allows him a moment, before gracefully disengaging herself. "Do you think I'll make a good aunt?"

Roje startles - then looks away. "Ah," he says, and returns his eyes to her face. "Yes, you - you'll be the most beloved aunt on Bajor. 'Auntie Panin', they'll call you. And all the other children will be madly envious of them, for their aunt will be the Kai."

"I hope it won't land them in trouble."

"Trouble?" Roje guffaws. "Don't be ridiculous. The envy of others is a _good_ thing, when one is young."

"And when one is old?"

"Hm," says Roje. "It is considerably more complicated."

"The world of politics, old friend?"

"The world of politics," nods Roje, and swallows. "Farewell, Panin, for today. The election is due in a month's time; I do not know when I shall next have the opportunity to drop by."

"Any time, Roje."

"Any time," he echoes, and reaches up to touch her face. His gaze is warm, as warm as B'hava'el in spring. "Be well. And _do_ come by for dinner, one of these days."

"I will. I'm sure you'll be re-elected, Roje. There is no better man."

"Indeed, there isn't," he says, and puffs his chest out, like the brash fourteen-year-old he once was. "You'll see Rojek Velar win it, Panin. Make no mistake."

"I never do."

They grin at each other - and then Roje is leaving, out through the swinging curtains and into a world where envy is complicated, and it is not until the rest-hour prayer that Paninka hears about First Minister Velar's ecstatic speech, in the form of his nightly planetary address, proclaiming that the Emissary is here.

* * *

><p><strong>to be continued.<strong>  
>Please review!<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**1.** I have decided to name every forthcoming chapter after a quote from Rimbaud's poetry, since Arthur Rimbaud was, after all, the original _enfant terrible_. (Or just the most famous one!) This particular chapter's title is based on Rimbaud's prose poem, 'Side Show', which is - interestingly enough - about gay prostitutes in nineteenth-century Paris. Um. I'm reasonably sure that Jim isn't actually a French prostitute. _Reasonably_. But if anyone wants to write me a story or draw me a picture of Spock as a stern, intellectual Victorian gentleman and Jim as the impudent little incubus that fries his oh-so-logical circuits, then please, do go ahead.

**2.** In this alternate universe, Bajor is not at war with Cardassia. (Yet.) And the Kai is not, actually, allowed to marry. In canon, Bajoran priests and religious leaders are not required to observe wows of chastity. But in my story, they are, because, yay, chastity! Who _doesn't_ love it?

**3.** The Vedek Assembly is the religious arm of the Bajoran planetary government, while the Ministry is its legislative arm. They clash often, and on almost everything, leading to interminable council sessions in which venerable old politicians just nod off in the back. (Remind you of any Earth governments? Hm.) Anyway, it kind of makes Bajoran politics a bitch to navigate, since Bajor doesn't have that convenient separation-of-church-and-state thing going on. Er. Temple-and-state. Whatever.

**4.** So, obviously, while I have used certain canonical details from _Deep Space Nine_ in order to complete my picture of Bajor, a great deal of it is speculation and whimsy. Don't actually _expect_ to find that story about B'hava'el and his five daughters anywhere; you won't find it. I, um. Kind of made it up. Although B'hava'el _is_ the sun of Bajor; you can find that information, along with a whole lot of other brain-food, on both Wikipedia and Memory Alpha. If you're interested in Bajoran culture, I strongly recommend that you read either or both of those sources. Bajor rocks.

**5.** I'd link you to a picture of a Bajoran temple, but I can't, because , unlike Bajor, does not rock. See my _Archive Of Our Own_ page (linked to from my profile), if you want to read this story complete with pictorial assistance.

**6.** The reason Hikaru compares Jim to a call-girl from North Beach is because Hikaru's from San Francisco. And North Beach is an area of San Francisco that is rather notorious for its hookers, which Hikaru has an utterly abstract, totally theoretical knowledge of, okay? _Totally theoretical_, so stop looking at him like that, Pavel. Hikaru's such a goody-two-shoes that he doesn't even know he wants in your pants. (Yet.)

**7.** '_Bozhe moi_' is (romanized) Russian for 'my god'. Oh, Pavel. In Soviet Russia, the wormholes open _you_.

**8.** For your further amusement, see Wikipedia's definition of 'twink'. (Which, again, I would link you to, except I can't.) The cake is the best part. Trust me.

**9.** Please forgive me for the obscenely long notes.

**10. **No, really. Forgive me. _Please?_


End file.
